A Grain of Sand
by Pinahn
Summary: Carlton Lassiter deals with the death of his surrogate father and the reemergence of his real dad.
1. Chapter 1: Generations

**Disclaimer: **I do not own **Psych **or any of its characters. However, I do own the Psych Season 2 DVD...though that still doesn't really give me any creative rights to do anything except daydream on paper.

**Chapter 1: Generations**

_Summer of 1985_

Sixteen-year old Carlton Lassiter sat quietly on the house porch. The wind had kicked up a small dust storm that interrupted his afternoon of target practice. While he thoroughly believed that he should practice in every weather condition, using nature's obstacles to help build his adaptability to different scenarios, his targets kept blowing off of the wooden fence and Hank would be pretty upset at him if he missed and hit one of the stables. Plus it was opening weekend and the tourists hadn't all dispersed. It would be unfortunate to hit one of them as well.

Carlton played with the weight of the six-shooter in his hands, turning it over and over until his hand understood the significance of each screw. He deftly withdrew a single bullet and ran through the drill again, learning to recognize the subtle changes. "Your gun is a tool," Hank had told him. "Every craftsman must learn to appreciate his tools." That rule applied to choosing the proper saddle, hammering a nail and even cleaning the barn. "You do a job, you see it through." Hank was always instilling nuggets of life's lessons for him. He tried his best to remember them all though he admitted that most of them didn't make any sense, though he reasoned that they would come in handy when he was old enough to know better.

He had worked his way down to just one bullet; one single bullet encompassed in a chamber of metal and yet he could still sense its presence. He closed his eyes to memorize the significance of the solitary piece of lead. It was as subtle to him as rolling a coin through his knuckles or shifting his weight in the saddle of his favorite paint. He held his hand out evenly, trying to feel which way the weight shifted, not balancing the gun but letting the gun find a balance in his hand.

"You praying, Binky or are you trying to guess which chamber it's in?" Hank's voice boomed from just behind him. Carlton looked up quickly then struggled to stand to his feet. Hank stopped him. "Don't quit on my account. I'm just out for some fresh air."

Only Hank would breathe in fresh air during a sand storm. The man was tougher than a leather boot and Carlton longed to be just like him one day. He closed his eyes again and tried to rediscover the weight. He heard Hank draw a breath then slowly slide to the space beside him.

"You got it," Hank asked in a whisper.

Carlton paused another moment, furrowing his brow then opening his eyes to a squint. "I think so." He hesitated then nodded to himself confidently, "Fourth chamber."

Hank took the gun gently into his hands and opened the barrel.

Carlton knew that he was wrong, the instant that the barrel saw daylight. "Oh, the fifth," he lamented, his voice squeaking. He dropped his head into his hands and chided himself quietly. He felt Hank's heavy hand pat him on the back. "I thought I had it that time."

"Well, you were close," Hank said, letting the bullet slide from the chamber then closing it completely. "And close is good enough for horse shoes." He gave a knowing wink then turned the gun over in his hands. The classic piece always brought a gleam to the old man's eye. Carlton loved watching Hank clean and polish his guns, especially the Peacemaker. He always looked like the real sheriff of Old Sonora when he was carrying it. "I'd like for this old girl to be yours one day…"

Hank's words were just above a whisper. They seemed to come and go with the stirring of the wind. For a while, Carlton wasn't certain that he had heard him.

"When you're ready." There was another firm pat on Carlton's back and a warm smile. "Now go get your stuff, your mom should be here any minute."

"Yes, sir." Carlton stood quickly and dashed into the house. He had neatly packed his bag after breakfast that morning and left it near his bedroom door. On his way back through the kitchen, he grabbed his apple and thermos from the fridge. The drive home from Old Sonora was always a long one and left him famished along the way. His mom seldom had the time or the money to stop for lunch or a snack so Hank's provisions were always appreciated.

Carlton tossed his items into his pack and made his way to the door. He could see his mom's car through the screen but paused when he saw the figure standing next to it.

Michael Lassiter was well over six feet tall though his thick work jacket always made him look bigger. He stood next to the vehicle with his hands in his pockets and a scowl on his face. His wife was called into work over the weekend and solicited him to pick Carlton up from Hank's.

Carlton swallowed painfully and began to feel a pang in his stomach. He wanted to run back to his room and crawl under the bed. Better yet, he wanted to retrieve one of Hank's cast iron cooking pans or the stable whip. Leaving Hank and riding home with his father was the last thing in the world that he wanted to do. But as Hank would say, "Everyman has his business and the honest man tends to his own." So with a heavy hand and a deep sigh, he pushed the door open and joined Hank on the front porch.

He watched his father glare at him from the driveway. There was the slight sway in his posture that only meant one thing; he had been drinking again.

"You got everything," Michael yelled, in the half drunken slur that only promised a dizzying ride home.

Carlton nodded slowly then stepped off of the porch, turning to give Hank one last look. The older man winked and nodded him on. As Carlton drew nearer to his father he began to assess his level of toxicity. He couldn't smell the alcohol but he saw drops of it on his father's pants, a sure sign that the man had been drinking on the way over.

"Put your stuff in the back and keep that mud off my seats."

Carlton nodded and moved to open the back door. He felt a sudden pain on the back of his head that jerked him forward.

"You can't talk anymore?"

The slap brought a tear to the teenager's eye. It wasn't that it hurt; in fact he stopped feeling the pain of his dad's slaps and punches all together. Even his father's words didn't hurt him like they used to. What really hurt was that his dad chose to behave this way publicly. Why did Hank have to watch his dad yell and fuss and betray the oath of a man?

He pulled on the back door again and placed his bag inside. He could feel Hank's eyes on him, watching protectively. He knew that Hank wouldn't let any real danger come to him but Hank also had enough respect to let him handle his own business. Michael was his father, not Hank and no matter how many times he wished that the roles were reversed, the facts were the facts and an honest man doesn't ignore them. With a heavy sigh he slid into the passenger's seat and buckled his seat belt. He watched Hank's reassuring gaze through the dusty windshield. Hank's eyes were locked on his the entire time the car pulled away from the driveway. He stood there like a solid rock, a guardian who promised to chase away any hurt that the long week would bring.

Carlton stared longingly at Old Sonora. The drive back with his father was going to be a long and painful one. He dropped his head against the headrest and let his attention slip out the passenger's window. His dad had turned up his favorite radio station and retrieved his hidden bottle of beer. If Carlton was lucky, and he never was, his father would forget that he was sitting next to him and simply drive along in silence. He wished desperately for that. He wished that the car ride was over. He wished that he could simply disappear. But more than anything, he wished that he could fast-forward through the next week and arrive at another Sonora weekend.

T-minus five days and counting.


	2. Chapter 2: A Day is Just a Day

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Psych or have any creative control over its characters.

**A/N: **Thanks oh so much for the reviews. Our characters are in present day with all spoilers current through episode 6.16. Despite the subject matter, I don't intend for this story to be a downer so message me if you think that it's getting too deep. Many thanks.

**Chapter Two: A Day is Just a Day**

_Present Day_

Death.

Somehow it stopped being surprising to learn the manner in which a person died. Granted, it would be impossible if not inhuman to ever become completely comfortable with death—Woody being the only exception to that rule—But somehow the horror of it all seemed to just disappear over time. After the first few gut-wrenching months on the job, some quality time with the bathroom floor and a few, _mandatory,_ counseling sessions, death just became another natural part of life. It didn't matter if the body was mutilated, decapitated or burnt to a crisp inside of a late model luxury vehicle. Death was just simply that.

Death.

Detective Carlton Lassiter adjusted the tension of his forensic gloves and took a step closer to the charred vehicle, once black but now a tragic metallic white. It sat alone, on a quiet back road, encircled by the last of the first responders, strings of yellow tape and a pale mist of white smoke. Its driver too was alone. According to the plates—or what was left of them—the owner was a Caucasian male in his early fifties—probably a doctor or a lawyer—and now only identifiable by his dental records alone. Very little of the man survived the blaze. He wore a heavily tarnished but unmistakably golden ring on his left hand and—despite being burned alive—seemed to have avoided removing his glasses at all.

Lassiter took a moment to drink in the victim's appearance before he could move any closer. Sure he was a pro but there was no sense in being hasty. The decedent wasn't going anywhere after all.

Even O'Hara was visibly disturbed the scene or at least appeared to be, seeing that she hadn't mustered the courage to even approach the vehicle. Instead, she lingered slightly behind him pretending to jot notes onto her steno pad and barking assertively at the available uniformed officers.

Not that he could really blame her. The sight alone was staggering and the smell added a certain neurological flare that their traditional cases never really brought. The stench was even starting to get to him. There was that persistent reminder in the way his stomach turned as he inhaled. It was nothing that he couldn't handle though. In fact, he was secretly grateful that it was too gruesome for the typical gawker. Finally he could be left alone to simply observe the facts.

"Whoa who laid the golden egg?"

Lassiter's shoulders tensed. That deceptively optimistic voice only belonged to one person.

"You smelled it, you dealt it."

And then there was his spineless groupie.

The voices grew louder as the two men approached. Lassiter took a steadying breath and turned in time to see Shawn and Gus ducking nonchalantly under the police tape. He shook his head slowly, too tired to pull out his soapbox and make his jurisdictional point. "You guys know that tape is meant to keep people out, right?"

"Is it?" Shawn stepped between the two detectives and dug his hands into his pockets. "I thought that it was that finish line tape. I was going to run through it but I sprained the fourth digit of my third toe playing Xbox Kinect with Gus last night. Plus I'm not all that fond of running."

"Then why don't you walk gingerly away from my crime scene and soak your precious toe in a tub of hot water." He waved a dismissive hand at the man and returned his attention to the car.

Spencer followed. "Who's Gingerly?"

Lassiter spun back towards him, his energy reviving in the fumes of anger that Spencer seemed perfectly adept at rekindling. What was even worse than the man's presence was his personality. If past was prologue—which it almost always was where Spencer was concerned—Lassiter would lose an hour's worth of productivity being subjected to another rerun of the Shawn Spencer Attention Show.

Something had to give.

He towered over Shawn—who stood alone in front of him since Gus had grown predictably pale from his vantage point just inside of the police line—and locked two stern eyes on the younger man. "Go. Away." He used his sternest, I-mean-business voice.

Spencer held his gaze for a moment then took a slight step back. "Relax, Lassie. I'm here to see Jules."

Juliet lifted her head from her paper long enough to give him a very pale frown. "Shawn, now is it not a good time."

"I know but," he glanced back towards the car then beckoned O'Hara a few steps off into the distance.

Lassiter relaxed at the sound of the reprieve and returned his attention to the vehicle.

The victim's right hand was trapped between the seat and the armrest. Lassiter followed the arm towards the floor of the car where a dull metallic glint caught his eye. The victim's hand was wrapped around a…

It was hard to make out but it looked like…

He gently pushed the door open and carefully squatted to the ground, leaning too close to the victim's legs and using his penlight to illuminate the area under the driver's seat. The blackness of the fire had consumed everything. But the charcoal object that the victim was holding was unmistakable.

"Come on Jules, just-"

"Shawn!"

Spencer and O'Hara's voices drifted back towards the car. Spencer had adopted that winey tone that only meant that he wasn't getting his way. O'Hara's curt response meant that she must have been the cause of it.

Good for her.

The wining didn't stop there however and the impromptu serenade of "Please, please, please, please," was too much for any adult to take.

Lassiter gruffly pocketed his penlight and stood to face the menace. "Sweet Lady Justice, do you have an off button? Or maybe even an ounce of common sense?"

Shawn seemed slightly surprised by the retort and did little to counter it.

Good.

Maybe he would listen for a change.

"Spencer, you are not on this case," Carlton continued. "Harassing O'Hara will not get you on this case and annoying me is about to get you arrested. So why don't you and Guster go find a taco stand or something and leave the rest of us alone."

Shawn's eyes perked at _taco_. Sometimes appealing to the younger man's appetite was a guaranteed win. He looked over his shoulder, as if for one promising moment he might consider the offer but then faced forward with a hesitant expression.

"Man, who could eat anything after hanging out here?" Shawn scrunched his nose at the scene. "This place smells like eggs and feet."

"Way to be sensitive Shawn." Juliet's voice was remarkably stern.

It was tough to read her expression through her sunglasses but Lassiter wagered that today's conversation was a desperate attempt to make up for yesterday's indiscretion—or maybe last week's indiscretion for that matter. Quite frankly, he was growing tired of counting and was on the cusp of no longer caring. All that mattered now was that Spencer had successfully destroyed whatever analytical flow that he and O'Hara had going.

Lassiter beckoned a uniformed officer over with the flick of his eyes. "And that's you leaving." He echoed Juliet's stern voice.

"Okay," Shawn sang, taking a half step away. "Down boy." He gave O'Hara one last look then turned to leave, his head stooped towards the ground. "Oh and Lassie?" He stopped suddenly and raised a telltale hand to his head.

Lassiter cringed inwardly. _Please not the sideshow act. _

"I'm sensing that your human McNugget didn't burn alive." He turned to face the detective in mocked seriousness. "He was dead before the fire even started."

O-O

"Looks like Shawn's hunch was right." Juliet thumbed through the last page of the autopsy report before setting it on Lassiter's desk. "Alvin Palmer died from a gunshot wound to the chest."

Carlton stared at the open folder then looked up at her, annoyance radiating from his features. "Why would you begin any sentence with that god-awful phrase?" He reached for the folder and looked over the results for himself.

"Only because it's true," she said, watching him tap an absent finger on the desk as he organized his thoughts. "The preliminary ballistics report doesn't really make heads or tales of the slug, it was so melted. But Shawn was right about the casing though-"

"There it is again."

"The casing," she said with emphasis, choosing to ignore his obvious mood. "Is from a .357 magnum. It was a classic crime of opportunity. The shooter tries to hijack a luxury vehicle. Palmer refuses, pulls the gun you found on him and gets shot in the process. The shooter then sets fire to the car to cover his tracks."

"Except Palmer knew his attacker," Carlton added, without looking up from the paperwork.

"What?" Juliet leaned over his shoulder to reread the file.

He handed her the report then swiveled his chair so that it squared off with her. "The shooter never saw Palmer's weapon, it was wedged between the seat. Plus there were no skid marks. The shooter didn't surprise him, Palmer stopped willingly."

Juliet nodded in agreement. His assessment was spot on and she was already beginning to anticipate their next move.

"I'm willing to bet that if we run Palmer's weapon, we'll find a fresh registration," Carlton concluded.

"And his petition for a restraining order," Juliet added, closing the file and trotting back to her desk. She could already hear Carlton typing furiously on his own computer. With any luck they would have a key suspect within the hour. She logged in and began entering her own data. But in the time that it took for her screen to refresh, she had a whole different problem. A distraction.

"Hey Jules." Shawn trotted the distance to her desk and did a modest tour jete. He finished somewhat off balance and seemed to be suppressing a grimace. "Wow. That was really tuff on the nether region. Especially in these jeans."

Juliet fought the urge to indulge him and remained focused on her screen. "I'm sort of busy right now, Shawn."

"Yeah, Jules I know." He lowered his voice and slinked to a seat on the empty space of her desk. "I just want to make sure that we're okay. I seriously, honestly had no idea how much you wanted to see that play."

Their conversation over whether to see Man of La Mancha or watch Monday Night Raw replayed in her head. She had made every point as politely as she knew how and Shawn, despite his psychic powers, hadn't picked up on a single one. Apparently even the spirit world was made up of uncommunicative, inarticulate, Y chromosomed buffoons.

She breathed through the stress that was building and finally looked up from her screen. Shawn's sheepish face blocked the figure of another person standing just behind him. Juliet craned around for a better look. "Can I help you with something?"

Shawn caught her motion and jumped to his feet. "Oh, right." He turned towards the woman with a broad smile. "Jules, this is Mrs. Annie Mendel, the former lady in waiting of Lassie's hometown."

"Oh." Juliet stood politely and reached for the woman's hand.

"We bumped into each other on the way in," Shawn continued amidst their handshake. "Literally. I think her bony little elbows fractured my spleen." He overtly rubbed his left arm.

Juliet paused long enough to correct him. "Shawn, your spleen is an organ. And not in your arm."

Shawn plastered a grin and kept rubbing. "If it smells like cake it can't be pudding, Jules."

"That doesn't even make any sense." Juliet shook her attention from Shawn and continued her greeting to Annie. "It's nice to meet you," she beamed.

Annie shook Juliet's hand firmly though she didn't keep eye contact for very long. Her gaze kept drifting towards Lassiter's side of the bullpen.

"Are you here to see Carlton," Juliet led, beginning to cross the room to her partner's desk. Annie followed slowly and Shawn not at all. He was probably pilfering through the paperwork on her desk—Another thing that she would have to remember to discuss with him later.

"Carlton," she said, putting away the thoughts of Shawn and focusing on her introduction.

Carlton hesitantly tore his eyes from the computer screen and looked up at them. His face lit up when he noticed Annie.

"Hey," he nearly yelled in a genuinely overjoyed voice that made a few uniforms stop out of curiosity. He rose and gave the smaller woman a gentle embrace. "How've you been, Annie?"

Annie wrapped two thin arms around him and held too long. Her small shoulders slumped and quivered slightly. It wasn't long before they all heard the sound of her sniffling and faint, muffled sobs.

Carlton frowned and pulled the woman away from him. "Are you crying?" He slouched so that his gaze was even with her bowed head.

It was obvious that Annie felt out of place and more than a little embarrassed. Her eyes danced about Carlton's desk and before she had gathered a breath to ask him for a tissue, he was already slipping one into her hand.

"Thank you," she said quietly, dabbing at her eyes and wiping her nose.

He handed her another then offered her the chair by his desk.

"Thank you," she said again, just as meekly. "I think I'd like to stand."

"Okay," Carlton said softly, sitting on the edge of his desk and shooting Juliet a quizzical look, which she returned with a half shrug and a single nod.

"Binky," Annie began but stopped suddenly. Her face blushed as if she'd told an offensive joke.

Lassiter waved a hand of forgiveness. "It's okay."

Annie drew a breath and began again. "I need to talk with you about something if you have the time. Maybe we could step out for a little bit?"

Carlton grimaced. "I'm kinda in the middle of something, Annie. Here is good, if that's okay with you. What'd you want to talk about?"

Annie took a moment to speak, closing her eyes and nodding her head as if counting herself into a launch. "It's about Hank," she said finally.

The sound of her words turned Juliet's stomach. With that one phrase, she knew exactly why Annie had come. She brought a hand to her mouth prematurely and watched Annie search for the words to continue.

"I, um…We…" Annie hid her face in her hands and took a breath. "I practiced this on the plane because he always wanted you to be the first to know." She peaked her eyes out from behind her hands and stared at the ceiling. "Hank," she began again, more confidently. "Had an accident." She stopped and looked at him as if he would pick up the rest of the story on his own.

Carlton nodded through his gaped expression. "What, did he get thrown from his horse again?"

Annie pushed her hair from her face and sighed. "No. We were out kayaking, Hank and I, and…" she took another swipe at her nose, turning the tissue over for a dry part.

Once again, Carlton was quick to her aid but rather than a single tissue, he gently placed the box in her hands and watched her take it with kind eyes.

Juliet bit her bottom lip. He didn't have a clue where this was going.

"We hit some rough waves," Annie said, nodding her thanks for the fresh supplies. "Hank's boat capsized and," she drew another breath and exhaled before speaking again. "And." She looked at Carlton and frowned. "He didn't make it."

Juliet released the breath that she wasn't aware she was holding. The corners of her eyes began to sting with bitter tears on their behalf. She hated sad stories, especially ones that hit close to home. She looked from a broken Annie to an expectant Carlton. He was perched on his desk, leaning forward as if waiting for Annie to finish her story.

"Make it where," he asked, his eyes searching hers.

A stream of tears poured down Annie's face but she didn't bother to wipe them away. Instead, she extended a trembling hand towards Carlton and gently cradled his cheek. "Hank's gone," she whispered.

To Juliet, the words seemed to hang in the air. It felt like minutes before Carlton had any reaction at all. He didn't move. He didn't blink. He just sat there and stared, frozen in her embrace.

After some time, a small grin broke his trance. "You're pulling my leg, right?" He stood, a bit awkwardly, and crossed his arms over his chest. "I mean Hank's a perfect swimmer. He taught me how to swim. He can't drown. That's not possible."

Annie nodded and finally worked at drying her face. "It was two days ago, in Vancouver. His body will be here today." With a long sigh, she dropped into the chair and stared at Carlton's shoes. "There are some things he wanted you to have." The energy in her voice was completely gone. "I can ship them to you or you can come and get them. It's up to you." She looked up wistfully. "Then there's the Will and the funeral."

Carlton's eyes shot quickly towards her. They burned with such intensity that they cast a blue shadow on the folds of skin above his cheeks. His breathing began to quicken and for the briefest of moments it looked as if he would cry.

Juliet shook her head and closed the distance between them.

"Carlton," she began but he turned his glare on her.

Juliet stopped instantly, using every ounce of her empathy to absorb his intensity. She watched his eyes shift through the fog of anger, denial, sadness and confusion before finally settling on a murky, almost indifferent gray. She tried again, this time reaching for his arm.

"I can finish up if you two..." Her words trailed as she slid a sympathetic glance towards the woman in the chair; still frazzled, still patting her face.

Carlton's gaze slid to Annie as well. He considered the woman with a glimmer of passion returning to his eyes. He pulled his arm from Juliet's grip, brows knitted together and jaw tight. "I'll be back," he said, sliding past her.

"Where are you going?" She was almost afraid to ask.

Carlton walked in long strides, never once stopping to look back, never once slowing to be heard. "To shoot something," he called then disappeared down the hall.


	3. Chapter 3: Just Deal with It

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Psych or any of its characters.

**A/N: **Thanks for reading my last chapter and sharing your thoughts. Sorry for the long spell. I've alluded to spoilers through Santabarbaratown, there will be some references to that ending here. Also, I've taken some creative license with the High Noon-ish ending. You'll see…

**Chapter Three: Just Deal with It**

There were seventeen rounds per mag. Seventeen times that a bullet would slide into the chamber and jettison towards a target. There would be seventeen small claps of power and seventeen faint wisps of smoke. He would focus at least seventeen times and feel the world fall away as his target loomed before him. He would take seventeen steadying breaths and feel the satisfying recoil seventeen times.

There were four magazines on the seat beside him and none loaded into his gun. The Glock sat quietly at his side, waiting for the chance to be brought to life. Its steel was cold and inviting and Carlton's fingers itched to find their place around its surface. He brought the hungry hand to his face, opening and closing it into a fist, just in front of him.

He couldn't do it.

For the first time in his life, he didn't feel like firing his weapon. His hand fell over his face and messaged a tired brow.

_Gone_, Annie had said. _Hank's gone_.

Just like that?

Of all the words that Lassiter would ever use to describe Hank, _Gone? Dead? _The word was bitter in his head and turned his stomach. Beneath it all was a twinge of doubt that challenged him to deny it.

_Annie is lying, _he thought. _She's a feeble know-nothing of a woman whose idea of the great outdoors is the patio seating at Olive Garden. What could she possibly know? _

_And Kayaking?_

He scoffed.

_That was her idea. Hank probably jumped out of his boat just to get away from her._

Lassiter snorted a bitter laugh and dropped his head back towards the wall, hitting it hard enough to regret his carelessness. He winced as he tried to decipher which hurt more, the sudden piercing ache or the sound of fragile bone colliding with unforgiving concrete.

_Knocked some sense into you, _came the voice in his head that, in his most humbling moments, always sounded like Hank's.

His hand rushed to sooth away the pain as a wry smile ghosted across his lips. "Dang it, Hank." He huffed a sigh and patted down his mussed hair.

Of course Hank was right—Err, he would have been right—Heck, the man was always right. In fact, Hank would have had more than a few words to say if he caught him sitting here, wallowing in self-pity when there was a job to be done.

He gently returned his head to the wall and stared at the paper targets until they blurred into a single white image. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt reality nagging at him. He couldn't recall how long it had been since he left the women upstairs. Of course, it had occurred to him to check his watch but each time he thought to do so, he found a reason not to—And even if that reason was just staring blankly into space, it was still reason enough.

Still, he knew that he couldn't hide from reality forever and as if to prove his point, the soft footfalls of reality padded quietly towards him, threatening to permeate his refuge with its vulgar presence. He thought briefly of chasing it away with the barrel of his gun but there was no place in reality for actions like that.

O_O

Shawn walked slowly into the room. He peaked his head inside first, spotting the lanky detective on a set of chairs just inside; sitting half slumped with his head reclined stiffly against the wall. His sidearm and a number of clips sat unused in the space beside him.

The detail caught Shawn's eye and caused him to turn a curious head towards the targets down range. They all sat perfectly untouched. Odd, since he himself had managed to make it through an hour of Temple Run, at least half that on Angry Birds Space and had casually downed a pack of Combos while playing Name that Tune with Buzz before he realized that something might have been even remotely wrong with his favorite irritable Irishman. Along with that revelation came the thought that Juliet and Annie's depressingly somber mood was brought on by more than the fact that _Titanic _was actually being rereleased in theaters. So when the women finally confessed that the reason for their demeanor was due to the fact that Hank was dead, Shawn half expected the shooting range to lay in a thick fog a gun smoke; looking all too much like a battlefield from Lassiter's Civil War era weekend projects.

Instead, the room looked as if it had closed three hours early. Lassiter had been doing nothing at all.

Something was definitely wrong.

Shawn returned his glance to Lassiter in time to catch the tail end of a sideways glare.

"What," Lassiter sang, seemingly exasperated.

Shawn shoved a pair of nervous hands into his pockets. "Nothing, man. Just checking on you." He shuffled further into the room, one step at a time. "I thought you'd have made confetti by now."

Lassiter lifted his head from the wall, his face twisted in confusion. "Why would I be making confetti?"

Shawn pointed down range. "I meant with the…Never mind." He closed the distance between them and stared at an empty chair. "This seat free?"

"Spencer, what do you want?"

The older man was clearly aggravated, his voice making it apparent that he wanted nothing more than to be left alone. But Shawn couldn't resist. He dropped slowly into the space next to Lassiter and stared down range. "You've been down here for a couple of hours, Lassie. Everyone's starting to miss you."

Lassiter's expression shot a hole through that statement.

Shawn cleared his throat. "Okay, I miss you. Jules is busy with the Chipmunk dude, Gus is at work and I'm stuck here—Bored out of my mind."

"You could try going home," Lassiter muttered, clearly not out of venom from earlier in the day. He held his glare then let his head drop back towards the wall.

Shawn shifted nervously, bringing his hands from his pockets and wiping his palms on his knees. "I uh…I heard about what happened to Hank." He waited for Lassiter's non-response. The detective only blinked slowly and dropped his gaze to the floor. "He was a good guy, Lassie," Shawn continued, letting a confidently dry hand rest on the detective's shoulder. "I'm going to miss him too."

Lassiter breathed deeply before a noticeably softer voice pierced the air. "Spencer?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't touch me."

Shawn recoiled his hand faster than he thought possible and returned it to his pant leg. He fidgeted nervously, letting his sweaty palm ride his bouncing knee while he studied the detective skillfully. Lassiter sitting alone at a gun range and not firing his weapon was like going to a buffet and just ordering water. Something was morbidly wrong with the world and it had to be righted.

"So when's the funeral," Shawn asked softly.

Lassiter shrugged, shaking his head and returning his gaze to the ceiling.

"I hate funerals," Shawn mused but was instantly sorry the moment he said it. He felt Lassiter's eyes slide towards him and begin to warm with a rebuking heat. "I mean funerals only make it harder to say goodbye. Not easier. Everyone's all gloomy and dressed in black and crying nonstop for two hours—It sucks. I totally would've skipped Despereaux's if I wasn't the emcee."

He could still feel himself in Lassiter's crosshairs. He slowly brought his own gaze back until he locked eyes with the detective's.

Lassiter had turned completely towards him, his eyes narrowed and brows furrowed. "Spencer, I'm confused. Are you supposed to be helping?"

"Uh, yeah, that was the game plan."

"Well, stop," Lassiter said firmly. He sighed then dropped his head back towards the wall, only to pull it away just as quickly. "Crap-on-a-cracker," he hissed, gritting his teeth and cupping both hands on the back of his head.

"Watch out for that wall behind you."

"I said stop helping," Lassiter growled, dropping his elbows onto his knees and breathing heavily.

Shawn watched the man settle into the chair, hunched over, face hidden, probably staring at the floor. The sound of his breathing slowly dissipated and left them with the growing mechanical sounds of the room—the wall clock, the subtle whoosh of the AC. Even the ticking of Lassiter's wristwatch seemed to crescendo. It added to the uncomfortable cacophony and grew so loud that Shawn could barely think.

"I know how bad it feels to lose someone close to you." Shawn felt himself nearly shouting over the noise. "It twists your stomach in a knot. You can't eat. You can't sleep. Phineas and Ferb stops being funny. And all you can do is think to yourself, _Man if I only had one more day_."

He watched for a response from Lassiter but the man was unmoved from his self-made fortress.

"It's like one day, a man is adjusting himself on your class field trip and the next day he's shot in the chest, at point blank range." Shawn's attention dropped to the floor just as Lassiter peaked out from his refuge.

"But," Lassiter paused, his voice surprisingly meek. "Henry's in physical therapy."

Shawn met eyes with the man and smiled warmly. "But the idea's the same, Lassie. My dad being shot rocked my world. It made me realize that you think you'll always have someone but you never know when Vincent Price is going to call their name and make them dance in the street to that sweet, sweet beat."

He watched the confusion grow on Lassiter's face as he tried to place the reference.

"All we have is time," Shawn continued amidst Lassiter's befuddlement. "And the one thing you have in common with everyone upstairs is that yours isn't up yet." He shifted back into his chair and stared at the ceiling as if he could see the bullpen. "Annie's up there making a tissue-snowman and I'm pretty sure I saw Jules crying." He turned towards Lassiter and studied the man carefully. "You miss Hank, Lassie. I get it. But so does Annie. And honestly, I think Hank really would have wanted you to help her get through this too." He let a hand drop onto the detective's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

Lassiter slowly retreated from his barricade, resuming his full height in the chair. He looked at the ceiling, nodding to himself then slid two blue eyes in Shawn's direction. "Spencer."

"Lassie."

"I was serious when I said don't touch me."

"Right." Shawn quickly pulled his hand away and crossed his arms.

Lassiter dropped his attention back to the range. His eyes seemed to search for something that they would never find. After a long moment and a heavy sigh, he gathered his clips and stood slowly, busying his hands with his shoulder holster as if trying to avoid eye contact.

Shawn stood as well, a sense of accomplishment washing over him. He watched the detective take too long to secure his weapon then look, almost reluctantly, at him.

"Um…thanks," he said, his voice uncharacteristically hoarse.

Shawn felt a proud smile grow on his face. "You're welcome, buddy." He allowed the sincerity to pass then felt compelled to bring the levity back into the room. He hated it when things became too serious. He searched for an out. "So…You wanna butt-slap it out? A little NFL action? C'mon son, give me those cheeks."

Lassiter's look hardened. "I'd rather audition for The Nutcracker." He moved past without another word.

Shawn smiled to himself. "Aaaaand he's back."

O_O

Annie's house smelled like dryer sheets. Technically it was Hank's and Annie's house but there was so little of Hank's presence in the home that Carlton was perfectly comfortable thinking of the place as Annie's only.

It had the typical woman's touch. There were small picture frames cluttering her glass coffee table. Most of them were photos of Annie and Hank but there were nearly a dozen or so of him, from over the years. They were those dreaded school photos that his mother never really had the money to buy but yet always purchased, as if she as a parent was obligated to further humiliate him by documenting his awkward life as a child. Then for spite, she would have him mail a letter and a picture to his grandparents, godparents and of course, Hank. Though he actually liked delivering the photos to Hank. The old codger seemed to genuinely enjoy getting them and would spend a good minute praising the passage of time.

_"Who's this young man," _Hank would say. He would turn the picture over in his hand, pretending not to notice Carlton's beaming and blushing face. "_Binky, you're getting so big there aint enough room for you in the frame no more." _He'd give him a wink and a heavy-handed pat on the head.

Carlton beamed at the distant memory. There wasn't much about his childhood that was worth remembering but the summers and weekends with Hank were priceless.

"I hope it's not too strong." Annie's voice broke into his thoughts. She sauntered slowly into the room, balancing two steaming cups of coffee. "Hank took it black and pretty strong," she said, placing a cup gently into Carlton's hands then taking a seat on the rocking chair next to him. "It was practically whole coffee beans boiled in water, the way he used to drink it." She handled her own cup in her palms and stared off into the distance.

Carlton took a whiff of his coffee and savored the memories that came with it. A dozen summers at Old Sonora rushed through his head. Each morning began almost religiously with Hank and his sacred brew. The cup was always taken leisurely along side a hearty breakfast and good conversation. When it was done, it was away with the dishes and off to complete the day's chores before lunch.

Carlton brought the drink to his lips and sipped slowly, the dark liquid overwhelming his senses with one memory after another. He tried to swallow but his throat was impassable. It was too full of longing and grief to simply function as an orifice. He gagged, fighting for both dignity and control before spitting most of the liquid into his awaiting hand.

Annie set her cup onto the table and rushed to his side. "It's too strong isn't it?" She whipped a kerchief from her bosom dabbed at his face.

"I'm fine," he said in a choked whisper, meeting her hand with his own.

"I'm so sorry," she fussed, fighting through his hand to continue dabbing.

He jerked his head from one side to the other, in an attempt to dodge her doting. Finally he went on the offensive, grabbing her hand and staring intently at her. "Annie!"

His sharp tone cut through her and froze her in place. A lip quivered as she stared into his eyes.

"It's okay," he whispered, still regaining the strength in his own voice.

"I can't do this," she said, just as quietly, pulling away from him and wondering back to her chair. "Three years." She dropped like a dead weight into her chair, making the poor thing squeak in protest. "It's only been three years, Binky. Seems like longer doesn't it?"

Lassiter nodded as he slowly ran his finger along the coffee cup.

"We both knew we were late to the game but we should have had more than this."

He fingered a groove at the base of the cup, following its swirling feature from the mug to the handle and back. He didn't notice that Annie had stopped talking until he felt the seat give, next to him. She had crossed the room and was sitting just inches from his side. She reached a slender hand in his direction and let it rest on his knee.

"I can't even imagine what _you_ must be feeling. You've known him your whole life…Well most of it. You were like a son to him. And boy was he proud of you. Binky this and Binky that. All day he'd just go on and on about you." She gave his knee the squeeze that summoned his attention from his cup. "He was so very proud."

There was a gleam in her eye. He tried to recall what he could have done in his life to make anyone remember him so fondly. Making Head Detective at such an early age was nothing to sneeze at but he hadn't been promoted to any higher distinction since then. He was affectionately known in the city papers as "Deputy Dipstick" and any other accolade that he might lay claim to was constantly soured by the same blithering idiot who treated Due Process with less care than he did his home TiVo.

"You don't believe me?" Annie read his thoughts.

_Cursed woman's intuition. _

Annie rose slowly and left the room, only to return with a familiar wooden box embroidered in aged metal and kissed with a faded engraving. She placed the box in Carlton's lap and waited for his reaction.

Carlton brushed a hand over the lid of the box. He'd seen Hank handle it over a hundred times and he knew what was inside. Countless times he longed to steal a glimpse of Hank and the Peacemaker but he dared not look at it now.

It was sacred.

It couldn't be his.

Not this way.

Annie sensed his hesitation. "It's yours you know." She crossed back to her chair and sat, scooping her coffee back into her hands and rocking slowly. "Hank said it always belonged to you. Ever since the summer you graduated from high school, he'd been keeping it for you. He said he would have given it to you long ago but there was something about having it around your father that he didn't like."

Carlton's eyes rose slowly to the woman. Another memory stirred.

"Everything's inside," she continued amidst his vacant stare. "Hank put it all together for you when we sold off the property. The deed's in there and the check."

Carlton blinked away the fog and rejoined the conversation. "What?"

"We didn't sell it all off. Just a piece here and there to the miners when they came knocking. He put some of our first proceeds in trust for you and swore that he'd leave you with a piece of the property—Though it can't look much like you remember, what with the mining and all."

The box suddenly grew heavy in his hands. His chest began to swell. "He…" The single word was all Lassiter could manage. With a trembling hand, he opened the lid and peered in.

Just as Annie had promised, sitting folded, faded and worn, on top of the silver Peacemaker was the deed to Old Sonora. He tried to reach for the paper but the images before him began to blur as hot stinging tears started to drip from his eyes.

"I…" He began before being cut off by an immense dryness in his throat. "I…" he tried again but to no avail.

Annie nodded knowingly from her chair, a sympathetic frown growing on her face. "I miss him too, Hun." Her eyes searched the room. "I miss him too."


End file.
